


Grace Will Lead Us Home

by enigmaticblue



Series: Grace 'Verse [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-07
Updated: 2011-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-27 01:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticblue/pseuds/enigmaticblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel has been alone too long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grace Will Lead Us Home

Castiel has been inside Bobby’s house several times, enough to know his way around in a general sense, but not often enough to have completely memorized the layout. Visiting a house and _staying_ there, are two completely different things, however, and Castiel has the bruises to prove it.

 

He yelps as he trips over what feels like a pile of books that someone has left lying next to the couch, and as he goes down, he hits his arm on the coffee table.

 

“Cas!” Dean’s right there with solicitous hands, helping Castiel to stand, patting him down. “You okay? Shit, I’ll pick those books up.”

 

“Dean, I can’t _stay_ here,” Castiel says, blurting out the words before he can think better of them. “I want to go home.”

 

“We haven’t caught the guy who did this to you,” Dean replies, still holding on to Castiel’s arms. “We’re working on it, but—”

 

Castiel sighs. “You’re not going to catch him. He’s human, and he’ll face human justice.”

 

Dean is still standing close, and Castiel can feel the warmth of Dean’s hands, of his body; he can smell the sharp tang of soap and the faintly chemical odor of Dean’s hair gel. There’s a part of Castiel that would like nothing better than to lean in close, to just rest there and allow Dean to make the decisions.

 

If Dean had offered to do as much after Castiel had lost his sight—if _anyone_ had offered—Castiel would have taken him up on that.

 

Perhaps Castiel has been alone too long, but he’s forged a life independent of everyone; he’s not used to depending on others, no matter how much he might like to do so.

 

Relying on anyone at this point chafes; Castiel wants his life back.

 

“Give me another day or two,” Dean requests. “We don’t know if that bastard will come after you again.”

 

Castiel bites back a sharp retort, and nods. “All right. Two days. But then I’m going home.”

 

Dean releases him, patting Castiel awkwardly on the shoulder. “You want anything? I think we’re going to order pizza soon.”

 

Castiel shakes his head. “No, I’m fine. I’d just like a clear path to walk.”

 

“I’ll just pick up a few things,” Dean promises, and Castiel can hear rustling as he tidies up, most likely putting away books and other detritus that seems to gather in Bobby’s house. “Why don’t you sit down?”

 

Castiel sits back down on the couch, wishing he didn’t feel so trapped. The house is welcoming enough, full of the people Castiel likes most, and of the musty smell of old books, but it’s also full of traps for Castiel, who cannot see the newest stack of books, or the piece of furniture that has been moved to better conduct the latest ritual.

 

Castiel can’t begrudge his time spent here, though. He’s spoken with Bobby many times, discussing various creatures and the lore surrounding them. He’s been able to provide Bobby with information regarding certain rituals and wards that Bobby had said he was happy to receive.

 

But Castiel is never alone, and Dean keeps asking him if he needs anything, or if he’s hungry, or if he wants a beer. Dean hovers, and although Castiel appreciates the attention and the care, he just wants some peace and quiet.

 

He keeps telling himself that in two more days, he’ll be home.

 

“You got a minute?” Bobby’s voice is as gruff as it ever is, but when he touches Castiel’s arm to orient Castiel to his location, his hand is gentle.

 

“I seem to have nothing but time,” Castiel responds.

 

Bobby pats his shoulder. “Good. I got a call I could use your help with. The kid’s facing one of those golems we were talking about the other day. You mind taking the call?”

 

“Not at all,” Castiel assures him.

 

Bobby presses the phone into his hand. “Thanks.”

 

“Hello?” Castiel says.

 

“Are you Cas?” The voice is male and unfamiliar—young sounding, and fairly high.

 

“Yes, that’s me.”

 

“Can you help me?” the man asks. “Bobby said you know about these things.”

 

“Tell me what happened,” Castiel replies. “And I will do my best.”

 

~~~~~

 

Castiel hasn’t been able to get nearly as much translation work done as he’d like, and it’s beginning to stack up. There’s always someone around to interrupt and distract him, always something else needing his attention.

 

On the morning of the second day, Castiel sits up in bed and promises himself that _today_ he’s going home. He finds his jeans and feels around for a clean t-shirt. The bag Dean packed is empty, and Castiel sighs. He’s left his dirty clothes in a pile in one corner, as is his habit, and he grabs the first shirt that comes to hand, sniffing it to see if it’s clean enough. Since it’s not too bad, he pulls it on and slowly, cautiously, makes his way downstairs.

 

He makes his way to the kitchen, grateful that there’s nothing to trip him up for once, and hears Dean say, “Hey, Cas. You want a cup of coffee?”

 

“Thank you,” he replies politely.

 

“Here.” Sam speaks from just behind his right shoulder, unobtrusively leading Castiel to an empty chair. “Have a seat.”

 

He smiles in gratitude. “Thank you, Sam.”

 

Sam presses his shoulder. “Whatever you need.”

 

He accepts the cup of coffee that Dean places next to his right hand with murmured thanks and listens to the movements around him. Dean and Sam speak quietly about a hunt they’ve found. Sam wants to leave immediately, and Dean insists that they talk about it later.

 

He hears the clatter of a plate on the wood table, and Bobby says, “Eggs are right in front of you, and the toast is at the top of the plate.”

 

Castiel nods. “Thanks.”

 

He eats slowly, methodically, listening to the conversation around him. Ever since losing his sight, Castiel has found that many people seem to think that just because he can’t _see_ them, he can’t hear them either.

 

Sam, Dean, and Bobby are talking about a hunt they’ve found. Sam is all in favor of leaving as soon as they can get on the road, Bobby is encouraging that impulse, and Dean insists that they wait another day at least.

 

Dean is stubborn, though, and Castiel suspects that he’s going to have to press the issue if Dean’s going to start hunting again.

 

“Maybe Cas could stay here,” Dean finally says reluctantly.

 

He has heard enough. “Dean, I need to go home.”

 

“We still haven’t found the dealers yet,” Dean objects. “Just give us a little more time, Cas.”

 

“No,” Castiel insists, hearing footsteps that indicate Sam and Bobby are vacating the kitchen. “You can’t keep me here.”

 

“If no one takes you home, you’re stuck here, so I think I can.”

 

Castiel feels a hot flare of anger as he rises to his feet, hearing his chair clatter to the floor behind him. “So, you would do the same thing that bastard did? You’d deprive me of my freedom?”

 

“It’s for your own good!” Dean replies hotly.

 

“Don’t tell me what’s for my own good!” he shouts. “You _left_ me, remember? I had to fend for myself for more than a year, and I built my own life. Maybe it’s not much, but it’s _mine_ , and I won’t let you or anyone else take that from me!”

 

There’s a long uncomfortable silence, and then Dean says stiffly, “I’ll get Sam to drive you home.”

 

Castiel closes his eyes as he listens to Dean stomp out of the room, and he crouches down, finding the chair by touch and moving it upright. He sits down heavily and puts his face in his hands.

 

He wishes he’d managed to hold onto his temper. It’s been a long time since he’d been incited to such a show of anger, and he doesn’t want to lose Dean. In fact, that’s the _last_ thing that he wants.

 

It’s just too bad that Castiel hadn’t been able to both manage to insist on going home and hold on to his temper.

 

Castiel understands why Dean had found it so difficult to forgive him; he doesn’t blame Dean for his reticence. But he’s not going to back down either, because he has his own life, and no one—not the drug dealers, not Dean, not anyone—is going to take that from him.

 

“Hey.” Sam puts a cautious hand on his shoulder. “You ready to go?”

 

“I should pack my things,” Castiel replies dully.

 

Sam sighs. “Dean took care of it.”

 

“Of course,” Castiel says. “Let’s go then.”

 

Sam drives him home in the Impala, and Castiel leans his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window. “Dean doesn’t know you very well yet,” Sam says quietly. “You’ve changed a lot, and Dean gets overprotective sometimes.”

 

“Only sometimes?” he asks, finding a bit of humor in the situation.

 

Sam chuckles. “Point. By the way, we talked to your landlord. We put in a new front door with a deadbolt and a chain, which you should use. And we put in a heavier door on your bedroom that has a lock. If someone tries to get in through the front, you can lock your bedroom door and go out through the window. Head for the nearest neighbor’s house.”

 

Castiel feels a hot rush of shame, knowing that Sam and Dean had put in so much work when he’d been acting like an ungrateful ass. “I’m sorry, Sam,” Castiel says miserably.

 

“Don’t apologize,” Sam insists. “Dean needed to hear that. We’ve got a hunt, and by the time we get back, he’ll have cooled off.”

 

“Thank you,” Castiel says as the car stops and Sam turns off the engine. “And thank Dean for me, too.”

 

“I’ll walk you inside,” Sam replies.

 

Castiel accepts the new key for his front door and closes it behind Sam, tracing the cool metal of the deadbolt and chain with his fingertips; they are tangible signs of Dean and Sam’s care and friendship. He turns the deadbolt and fumbles the chain into place, and he can’t help but feel a little safer.

 

If someone tries to come through his front door, at least he’ll have a warning.

 

Castiel is grateful to be home, but he’s also nervous and unsettled, remembering what had happened last time he was here. He wants to be alone, and yet he misses having people around him, and the silence in his house seems to echo strangely after the constant noise of Bobby’s.

 

He’s angry, _so angry_ , with the men who had taken him. He’d had a decent life that had only been getting better, and now it’s been derailed. He doesn’t know that he’ll ever feel secure here again, but he is unwilling to give up his independence.

 

All he can do is throw himself back into his work, catching up on the backlog of translations that has come in over the last several days. Castiel works methodically, carefully, wanting to be sure the nuances of every document are correct.

 

When he just can’t concentrate anymore, Castiel retrieves a beer and drinks it quickly, knowing that one beer won’t be enough tonight.

 

 _Beer_ won’t be enough, and Castiel wishes he’d had the foresight to buy something a little harder.

 

Too bad the visions don’t seem to give Castiel any hint as to what’s coming down the road in his own life, and he hasn’t had a vision since he’d been coerced into finding his captor’s drugs. Castiel wonders whether he’s lost the gift by misusing it.

 

He makes do with a second beer, drinking it just as quickly as the first, and goes to bed. The nightmares are particularly bad that night. Castiel can sometimes see again when he dreams, but this time he’s still blind. Hands grab at him, carrying him where he doesn’t want to go, and he’s scared and angry, striking out without making contact.

 

Castiel wakes up with Dean’s name on his lips, and he curses himself for a fool.

 

The next day is more of the same. He works, he drinks, and he tries to sleep, but it’s no use; every small sound makes him jump. He’s on high alert, and he can’t seem to relax.

 

By the time he drags himself out of bed the next morning, Castiel is exhausted—still angry, still tense.

 

If he can just get past this—if he can just _get his life back_ —he might manage to be content again.

 

No, if Castiel could just be sure that he hadn’t lost Dean’s friendship, he might be okay.

 

The computer reads an email to him. It’s from Marley, a hunter, requesting his help tracking down an elusive ghost’s bones. Castiel isn’t sure he wants to help, even if the vision comes. It was, after all, a hunter who had given the drug dealer Castiel’s name; why should he help any of them? He can trust Dean and Sam and Bobby, but not any of the others.

 

And then the vision slams into him, the images coming quickly—a man who buries his daughter in the backyard, leaving her ghost to haunt the house. Castiel sees the bloody mess of her head as the man dumps her limp form into a deep hole. He sees the man shovel dark clods of dirt into the hole, sees him tamp it down with the shovel, and then go back into the house to eat dinner as though nothing has happened, the girl’s blood still flecking the front of his shirt. Castiel sees her flickering ghost in the house, and the objects she hurls at the occupants, bashing in their heads as hers had been.

 

More people will die if he doesn’t help, and maybe it’s a risk for him to use his gifts, but Castiel knows that he can do nothing else.

 

He composes his answer to Marley and rubs his eyes, giving up on getting anything else done and lying down on the couch.

 

A knock on the door wakes him, and Castiel blinks open his sightless eyes. He considers not answering, but his visitor keeps knocking.

 

“Who’s there?” he calls.

 

 “It’s Mrs. Murphy,” comes the response.

 

Castiel recognizes her voice, and he unlocks the door. “Hello, Mrs. Murphy.”

 

“What happened to you?” she asks, touching his cheek, just under the still-tender bruise.

 

“Someone broke in,” Castiel replies. “I got a little banged up.”

 

“More than a little,” she says with a huff. “I wondered when I saw your friends putting up a new door. It’s much more solid than the last one.”

 

“I hope it does what it’s supposed to do,” Castiel responds. “How can I help you?”

 

“Can I come in? I have a casserole for you, and when I saw you were home, I thought I’d bring it by.”

 

Castiel feels a real smile pull at his lips. “What would I do without you, Mrs. Murphy?”

 

“You’d probably starve to death,” she replies with some asperity. “You need to take care of yourself.”

 

“I’m going to try,” Castiel promises.

 

He hears her shuffling around, the soft squeak of the fridge door, the sound of one of the disposable foil pans Mrs. Murphy always uses sliding against the glass shelf. “Now, you just put that in the oven at 350 for an hour when you’re ready to eat it,” she instructs. “And you get some rest. You don’t look as though you’ve slept at all.”

 

“I’m going to take a nap,” he replies.

 

“Good. And I’ll be keeping a sharp eye out. You can be sure I’ll call the police if I see anyone hanging about your place.”

 

Castiel feels a little more cheerful after Mrs. Murphy leaves, as he always does after one of her visits. She’s made it her mission in life to feed him on a regular basis, and Castiel feels a little less alone.

 

He sleeps better that night, and he feels as though his life might be his own again.

 

Slowly, painfully, Castiel gets back into his routine. He’s mostly stopped jumping at strange sounds by the fifth day at home, and while there’s still no word from Dean or Sam, it’s not unusual for them not to call while they’re on a hunt.

 

One week after Castiel shouted at Dean, he hears a key in the door as he’s sitting at his computer in the living room. He freezes, then calls out, “Hello? Who’s there?”

 

“It’s me, Cas,” Dean’s voice replies. “Take the chain off.”

 

Feeling some trepidation, Castiel does as Dean asks, stepping back to let Dean enter. “Hello.”

 

“How have you been?” Dean asks, and judging by the location of the sound, Dean is hovering in the doorway.

 

Castiel shrugs, wondering if Dean is going to completely ignore their argument. “Fine. How was the hunt?”

 

“Pretty cut and dried,” Dean replies. “Look, Cas, you were right. You’ve got your own life.”

 

Castiel nods, uncertain how to respond, or what Dean wants him to say.

 

“I’m still going to find that guy,” Dean promises, “but I think I’ve come up with a solution until we do.”

 

Castiel frowns. “Dean, I’m not moving—”

 

“I figure we get you the biggest, meanest dog we can find,” Dean says, as though Castiel hasn’t spoken. “There aren’t a lot of guys who’ll go after you if they have to worry about a dog tearing a chunk out of them.”

 

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “A dog?”

 

“Yeah, and we can get one of those harness things. Nobody’s going to get pissy about a seeing eye dog being with you all the time,” Dean says, as though this is the most logical solution.

 

Castiel feels a smile pull at his lips. “I don’t know anything about dogs.”

 

“So, you’ll learn,” Dean replies easily. “It’s just—”

 

Castiel feels Dean’s hands on either side of his face, warm and rough with calluses. One hand slides around Castiel’s head to cup the back of his neck, and then Dean’s mouth is on his.

 

Castiel hears himself make a surprised sound, and Dean pulls back, but Castiel grabs on. “No,” he says. “No, please.”

 

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says roughly, and his mouth is on Castiel’s again, his lips insistent and gentle, his tongue teasing Castiel’s. Dean tastes faintly of breath mints mixed with coffee, and his shoulders are solid under Castiel’s hands.

 

In that moment, Castiel wishes for nothing more than to be able to see Dean’s face, to read his expression, but he has learned to live with his limitations, to be grateful for the things he _does_ have.

 

And right now, he has Dean, and it might just be enough.


End file.
